


A Vow And A Promise Kept

by veronamay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Porn, Breaking Celibacy Vows, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Sharing Clothes, Timestamp, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-09
Updated: 2007-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:56:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1190967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester taking a vow of chastity?  The whole fucking world's gone mad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They're fighting. Again. Sam's so riled up he can't see straight; Dean's right in his face, growling at him like a fucking Doberman, and they're about ten seconds from throwing down for real. Sam welcomes the thought; he doesn't even care that he'll probably get his ass kicked, because this has been coming since day _one_. Dean keeps needling him about Dad's wishes and second-stringing him on every single fucking job, like he's still nine years old, and Sam has had _enough_. He's a grown man, for Christ's sake, and if Dean needs to have that fact shoved down his smartass throat then Sam's more than happy to do it.

He puts an elbow in Dean's ribs, hooks a foot behind his ankle and pushes sharply, and then Dean's on the ground and Sam's looming over him, chest heaving, pulse pounding in his ears. Dean only has a second to look surprised before Sam's pinning him to the ground, straddling his thighs and trapping his hands above his shoulders, looming close enough to feel Dean's breath on his face.

It's a mistake. Sam gets hard in about two seconds, and there's no way to hide it, and he curses himself and Dean to hell and back when Dean's eyes widen.

It wasn't supposed to happen this way. It wasn't supposed to happen at _all_. Stanford was meant to cure him of this.

Dean opens his mouth to speak, and Sam shakes his head.

"Don't," he grits out. "Don't. Not a fucking word."

Dean stares at him, disbelief plain on his face, not even trying to struggle. He looks like he's been hit with a two-by-four. Sam waits, because nobody but Dad has ever been able to shut Dean up, but Dean's just lying there, eyes fixed on Sam's. It takes Sam a second – and why wouldn't it, it's not like he was _expecting_ this – but when he gets it, it's like being sucker-punched.

"Oh, fuck me," Sam whispers in shock, and Dean closes his eyes and swallows.

"Love to," he says, his mouth twisting bitterly. "But there's a slight problem with that."

* * *

"You did _what_?"

He can't fucking believe it. It's official; God hates him. The Apocalypse is coming, all hail the Four fucking Horsemen, someone send Satan a pair of ice skates. Poverty they've got down pat, fraud notwithstanding. Obedience – well, Dean does better at that than him. But this? This is mental. Dean Winchester taking a vow of chastity? The whole fucking world's gone mad.

"You heard me." Dean's on the defensive, folded up against the wall, arms wrapped around his knees.

"But you're not a priest – you're not, are you? You're not Catholic. You're not even a _Christian_." Sam's sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, head lowered between. He can't look at Dean. He wants to cry. He wants to punch something. He _really_ wants to fuck something.

"Doesn't matter," Dean says. "The idea spans a dozen different religions – Buddhism, Judaism, Islam, paganism, ancient Greek—"

"Why?" Sam cuts in, looking directly at Dean. "Why would you do this? What made you think of it in the first place? And - _how_? I don't understand."

Dean looks steadily back at him. He's different lately; Sam's sensed some of it before now, but he'd thought it was just a product of the two years' silence between them. Apparently, giving up sex packs more of a punch than he realised.

"I," Dean says, and sighs. "Look, it wasn't a big deal. Dad was gone, you were at school, and after Cassie – well." His mouth quirks briefly. "I was doing some research and stumbled over the idea. Talked to Jim about it, and he agreed to help me put something together. End of story."

"What did you do, exactly? A – a binding spell, a curse, or what?" Sam knots his fingers together. _Not a curse, please God._

"It's a vow." Dean shrugs. "Nothing fancy. Baptism for purification, sage, rowan, chaste-berry – a combination of stuff."

"Does it ..." Sam hesitates. "Does it work?"

Dean chews on his thumbnail, slanting him a look. It's almost apologetic.

"Yeah. I mean, I haven't sprouted wings or anything, but ..." He clears his throat. "Something's different now. I've got an edge. I can find an unmarked grave. I know where the victims are. I always get the bad guy. I sleep better. And I never miss a shot anymore. Ever."

He can't take it in. It's weird. It's almost _wrong_ ; Dean being chaste is like the Pope going to a strip club. He feels out of step with his world. And Dean's not really helping; he's just sitting there looking at him, calm and collected as always.

Or not. Sam looks closer, sees Dean's jaw clench, a flicker of muscle. He notices just how tightly Dean's gripping his hands around his legs. Sees the pulse in his neck fluttering quicker than it should. Hope rises in his chest; he grabs it with both hands.

"Is it worth it?" he says. "I mean – how long are you going to do this?" He doesn't ask the real question; Dean probably wouldn't answer that anyway.

Dean looks away, letting his legs slide down to sit crosslegged, hands on his knees. Sam can clearly see the delineation of his cock inside his jeans. It makes his fingers twitch. When Dean looks back at him, Sam nearly chokes on the raw want in his gaze.

"What can I tell you, Sam - it seemed like a good idea at the time." Dean rubs his hands over his thighs, his voice rough. "Your timing sucks, man. Anyone ever tell you that?"

Sam has to grin. "Just you. Every time I caught you with someone in the back seat of the car."

It takes Dean a second to catch on, but when he does Sam feels the temperature shoot up another ten degrees. He's been 'accidentally' interrupting Dean in the Impala since he was sixteen.

"You cockblocking little bastard," Dean says softly. His voice rolls over Sam's nerves like velvet, making him shiver. "Were you jealous, Sam?"

"Were?" Sam stares right at him. "Try 'am'. Every single time."

He doesn't mention Cassie. That had been a hell of a shock. He's glad Dean had someone, but there's a bitterness at the back of his throat every time he thinks about it.

"Jesus." Dean thunks his head against the wall. He sounds like he's in pain. "You're not exactly helping me here, Sam."

Sam grips the mattress hard to make himself stay put. He's not trying to help. He wants to use whatever leverage he's got to push Dean into breaking that vow. But Dean's been honouring it for months now. He takes it seriously. If it's helping him hunt better, he's not going to give it up. Sam wants to be across the room right now, wrapped around Dean like a second skin, but he'll sleep in the car before he fucks up anything that might get them closer to their goal.

"So now what?" he asks. His throat hurts from all the things he's not saying. "Do we just forget it? Pretend this conversation never happened?"

Dean is silent for a long moment, staring at his hands. Sam watches a flush rise up over his neck and face, sees him swallow hard. Dean clears his throat and looks up.

"I won't forget," he says, and Sam has to look away or lose all control. "I – God, Sam, I want to, you have no idea ... but I need to do this. That vow - it's saved us both more than once. In Lawrence. And when Jess died." His face is a map of want and desperation. "I could've lost you twice already. I can't risk it."

Sam feels the hollow thud of disappointment hit his gut. Shoulders slumping, he falls back on the bed, closing his eyes to stop them stinging. He knew, but that doesn't change the fact that their situation _sucks_.

Dean's hand on his chest makes his whole body tense. He looks up. Dean's standing over the bed, watching his hand as it travels up from Sam's heart to his throat, over his jaw and into his hair. He's still hard; so is Sam. Sam holds his breath, unwilling to do anything to tip the balance.

"I'm under a vow." Dean's voice is husky. "But you're not."

He takes hold of Sam's hand and draws it down to rest low on Sam's belly, then lets go. Asking without words.

Sam meets his gaze. Dean backs away slowly, sitting on the other bed, never looking away. His hands are trembling.

The whispering buzz of Sam's zipper is the loudest sound in the universe.

* * *

He takes his time. This might be the only chance he has, and he wants to make it good for both of them. So he sits up, facing Dean, and slowly pulls his shirt open, one press-stud at a time. His jeans are gaping around his hips, the material rubbing against his cock with every movement. Sam watches Dean watching him, slides the shirt off his shoulders and thinks that this is probably going to kill him.

He doesn't really mind.

Dean is absolutely silent, absolutely still. He hardly seems to be breathing as Sam tosses the shirt away and reaches for his undershirt. But the pulse in his neck is working double-time, and his pupils are full-blown, his mouth parted, a hint of teeth showing. Sam's jerked off to the image of Dean's mouth since he was old enough to know how. He wants to kiss him, make that mouth red and swollen, suck on his tongue for a year.

He wants to scream at Dean for being such a fucking _moron_ with the world's biggest martyr complex. He bites the words back – now is _so_ not the time - and draws his t-shirt slowly over his head.

Dean makes a stifled noise when Sam frees his head from the shirt, tousling his hair in the process. Sam knows what he looks like; he likes jerking off in front of a mirror. He knows how flushed his cheeks are, how his eyes look half-closed and lazy, how golden his skin is in the low-wattage light. He slides one hand over his chest, fingering his nipple, watching Dean through his lashes. He presses harder, the way Dean would, digging in his nails. Sparks of pleasure shoot down to his stomach, and Sam bites his lip and arches into it a little. He likes this. He's never thought of himself as an exhibitionist, but this ... Dean is _riveted_ , and that goes right to his head, makes him harder than stone. Sam leans back on his elbows, spreads his knees wide and looks Dean straight in the eye.

"What do you want?" he says. "I'll do anything you want."

He watches Dean fight for control, half-hoping he'll break, getting off on performing for him. Dean shudders and grips the bed hard, letting his head drop for a moment. Sam waits, stroking up and down his chest, flicking his tongue out to wet his lips. Dean looks up and catches him at it, and his eyes sharpen and focus so quickly Sam is almost shocked. He licks his lips again, slower, and Dean swallows hard.

"Jeans. Down," Dean orders in a voice made of gravel, and Sam complies. He doesn't stand up; he falls back instead, lifting his hips and working the denim and cotton down.

"Stop there. On your knees on the bed."

Sam's not sure his knees will hold him. He can't breathe properly; he's burning hot, sweating, his heart's going so fast he can't count the beats, and they've barely started. But Dean's still watching him, hypnotised, and Sam's harder than he's ever been in his life. He leaves the jeans hanging off his upper thighs and sits back on his haunches.

"Lick your palm. Make it good and wet." Dean's hands are fists in the bedclothes. "I want to hear it when you touch yourself."

Sam moans, closing his eyes, dragging his hand over his mouth again and again, drawing his fingers inside to suck. He wants Dean's cock so much he could cry. He wants his own cock sucked. He wishes he was flexible enough to suck it himself, so Dean could watch. But he'll make do with his hand for now.

He trails his wet hand back down his chest, raising gooseflesh and shivers, tilting his head at Dean to see his reaction. Dean is almost vibrating in place, the veins in his arms standing out in stark relief, his face flushed. He's making noise now, small choked-off gasps, and he full-on _whimpers_ when Sam finally wraps his hand around his cock.

" _Dean_. God." Sam's hips snap forward, fucking his hand, and he has to fight to keep from coming on the spot. Dean's leaning toward him, three feet the distance. Sam bites his lip, tasting blood.

"Slow, Sam," Dean says in a strangled voice. "Slow and hard. That's how I like it."

He gasps a breath, his head dropping back, baring his throat. Dean growls at the sight, but Sam's already stroking, hard pressure and slick skin, and every stroke takes an hour. He loses track of everything but his hand on his cock, hips thrusting, rising up onto his knees when the pleasure ratchets up a notch. He's blind with it, but he can hear Dean's cut-off cries with perfect clarity. He imagines Dean's hand on him, strong square fingers, gun and knife calluses in different spots to his own, not as long but far cleverer. Dean would tease him a little, slow down just _here_ and linger _there_ , twisting a little over the head, rubbing underneath. Sam tries to spread his legs wider, tilts his hips up and licks the fingers of his other hand, sliding them behind his balls, pressing in hard. He speeds up just a little, smearing pre-come with every stroke, pushing his legs wider, wider. He wants Dean to see everything.

When the rush hits him, he stops breathing.

"Dean – I – it's—" is all he can manage, and then his orgasm rockets through him, exploding outward in a blinding wave of pleasure so sharp it almost hurts. He spurts helplessly, over his hand, his thighs, the floor; it seems to go on forever, and when it's finally done Sam topples onto the mattress, a dead weight, barely able to remember his own name.

* * *

"Shh," he hears, when his ears work again. "Shh. It's okay, Sam. It's okay. God, you're so ..."

Sam gathers himself, manages to roll onto his back. Dean's standing over him again, hands gripping his elbows, eyes roving over Sam's body and face and back again. Sam stretches out, arching, and lets him see.

"Do you—" Dean stops, gesturing to Sam's come-covered fingers. Sam brings his hand up and licks at it, curling his tongue around each digit. Dean's jaw clenches again, and his hand comes out a few inches before he catches himself and pulls it back.

Two seconds later Dean's at the door, pulling on one of Sam's hoodies, shoving his feet into running shoes. A single burning glance at Sam and he's gone, the only sound that of his feet thudding steadily into the distance.

By the time Dean gets back, panting and stumbling in exhaustion, Sam's showered and dressed again, checking the newspapers. He looks up when Dean comes in.

"Hey. Think I just found a new job for us," he says, like nothing's changed. He watches as Dean's shoulders loosen in relief. No chick-flick moments, he said once. Sam hasn't forgotten.

"Okay. Let me get cleaned up and we'll hit the road."

"Want some coffee?"

"Nah, I'm good." Dean stands in the bathroom doorway, frowning slightly. Sam raises his eyebrows in query, and he shakes his head. "Nothing. Never mind."

He closes the door, and Sam goes back to reading the obits, and that's that.

For now.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean knows this is a mistake. He knows he's flirting – literally – with death. There are a dozen reasons why he should stand up, change his mind, walk away before things get any more fucked up.

But Sam's kneeling on the bed with his jeans around his hips and his hand on his cock, moaning and thrusting like he can't help himself, and Dean can't look away. He's trapped in the best and worst of waking dreams, Sam doing everything he asks him to, Dean wanting to be the one doing it to him _so badly_ he could cry. He can feel his fingernails cutting into his palms from the effort it takes to keep still. His cock is diamond-hard between his legs, the feeling grown unfamiliar after so many months. It just figures that Sam would be the one to break this particular drought. If Dean was in a better frame of mind, he might even find that funny.

As it is, he can't do anything but sit and stare at Sam as he jerks off for Dean, putting on a show, legs wide and hips tilted forward in shameless display. Sam is golden all over; long and lean and heavy with muscle, moving so smoothly as he fucks into his hand, Dean can almost feel what it would be like. All that strength driving into him, making him wild, filling him up all the way and making him whole again, or maybe for the first time ever. He can taste Sam's sweat, feel the warm splash of his come, the vision of it so strong his body twitches in reaction.

Dean uncurls his hands and grips handfuls of the mattress. He can't do this. He can't ask Sam to stop. He can feel himself breaking, just a little, on the inside. He stares at Sam until his eyes are dry and burning, his breath whistling through his throat, his whole body trembling with restraint as Sam cries out and bucks and comes apart in front of him, arching back and then slumping down to lie flat on the bed.

The smell of semen is heavy and sharp. A moment later, Sam's sweat reaches Dean's nostrils, the sound of his panting breath echoing in the silence. Sight, scent, sound – these are the things he can have, the things he can carry with him. The things he will use to remind himself of why he can't have all the rest.

_But you could. You have no idea if the vow is working. You just think it is. It could be a load of crap for all you or anyone else knows._

He knew that Sam was in trouble in Palo Alto. He knew exactly where to find him in the house in Lawrence. Never doubted that Sam would've died both times if he hadn't been there.

He's not willing to take the chance. No matter how much he wants to.

When he's sure he's not going to crumble, Dean stands up and walks over to the bed. Sam is laid out like a sacrifice, chest heaving and fine tremors shuddering through him. His hand is covered in come; Dean sees it, and then can't look away.

Sam follows his eyes and raises the hand to his mouth, licking it clean. Dean takes a step forward, reaching out.

No. He's made his choice; now he has to try and live with it.

He makes himself turn, gets to the door so he's got something to hang onto. He keeps his eyes turned away from Sam as he struggles into sweats and runners, grabbing clothes at random in his hurry. He allows himself one final look back (Sam stretched out and gorgeous, everything Dean's ever needed or wanted laid out across that bed).

Then he's out the door and running, not knowing or caring where, just laying down his feet and picking them up again faster and faster until the want begins to settle. It never goes away completely, but he's used to that. He just needs to get himself under control.

He's two miles down the road when he realises he's wearing one of Sam's hoodies. Sam's smell is all around him, jacking him up, and Dean wants to tear the thing off and set fire to it. He wants to bury himself in it and breathe. He wants to jerk off into it, warm and damp and Sam.

What he does is run. Until he's stumbling, nearly blind with fatigue and on the edge of collapse. He runs for miles, in the pitch black of a new moon, and only when he's too beaten to think of anything but stopping does he allow himself to return.

Sam's up and dressed in different clothes by the time he gets back, reading the papers. Dean notices the windows have all been opened. The room smells of nothing but fresh air. Sam offers him coffee; he accepts; and it's just like it's always been between them. Sam even used most of the hot water again.

Everything is different. But Dean is grateful for the pretence, at least for now.


	3. One month later

Now that Sam knew, things were both better and worse. Dean didn't stop flirting with everything that moved ("I'm celibate, Sammy, not _dead_ "), but he stopped staying out late, stopped pretending he'd been with some hot little number in the back of the car until the small hours of the morning. It was kind of a relief, if Dean was honest. He could go for a drink if he wanted and come back when he was ready, and he wasn't lying to Sam.

Problem was, when he got back to the room, Sam was always there. And since that (incredible, amazing, fucking _hotter than hell_ ) display he'd put on for Dean a month ago, things had definitely changed.

They didn't touch, at all, unless it was absolutely necessary. Dean tried not to meet Sam's eyes, tried not to look at him or listen to him breathing or feel his solid presence on the other side of the car. Everything about Sam was a temptation now, and Dean couldn't fix it. Wasn't sure he wanted to.

Sam never mentioned it, as if it never happened. But every now and then he came out of the bathroom in only a towel, still wet from the shower, or stretched out full-length across his bed as if inviting Dean to look. Little things, never enough to cross the line, never more than Dean could handle. It wasn't teasing, or mockery; it was a silent message that Sam was willing to give whatever Dean's vow would let him take. Dean wanted to take him up on it; there were nights he couldn't sleep for remembering what Sam looked like, naked and sweating for him, nights when he thought he'd explode if he couldn't get his hands on his brother. But he knew the condition for grace as well as anybody ever could, so he kept his mouth shut and his hands to himself.

It was the hardest thing he'd ever done. He was certain he'd grow to hate it, and that one day he'd fall. But today wasn't gonna be that day, and neither was tomorrow. He could work with it for now.


	4. Timestamp (early season 3)

Sam's first memory is of Dean hugging him. He was two, and his brother seemed like a giant. He'd felt safe, all wrapped up in Dean's arms.

It's strangely fitting that his second chance at life should start the same way.

Sam is old enough now to recognise awe when he feels it. Watching Dean put a bullet squarely into the demon's heart, he can't feel anything else. In that moment, Dean is the closest thing to holy Sam's ever seen.

An hour later, he wants to put his fist through Dean's entire face, but that's not unusual. It's also not unusual that Dean has once again taken the blue ribbon for self-sacrifice. Sam wonders why he's even surprised by this shit anymore.

It doesn't matter. Surprised or not, he's not going to let Dean sell his fucking _soul_ on top of everything else they've lost. So he emails Bobby the next day and they start looking for a way to break the deal. He's so focused for the first couple of days, he doesn't notice the change in Dean's behaviour until it's almost too late.

"Dude, what is _wrong_ with you?" Sam demands, when he sees Dean pacing the room on the third day. Dean slants an irritated look at him and shrugs.

"I dunno, man. I feel—wrong. Like something's missing, something's off. Feels like I'm only running on three cylinders." He twitches his shoulders. "I dunno," he repeats, but Sam already has an idea.

"How long have you felt like this?" he asks, turning to the laptop.

"Couple days," Dean admits. He runs a hand through his hair. "Don't go all Dr House on me, Sammy. It's just leftover adrenalin, or something."

"A couple days," Sam repeats. "Not a few weeks? 'Cause I thought—that actress, back in LA—"

He stops there, because they don't talk about the vow. He tries not to think about it, even; the frustration and want is too much. But Dean's looking at him and shaking his head, and Sam's gut relaxes despite himself.

"No?" he says, just to be sure.

"Nah. I mean—I was tempted," Dean says, and Sam swallows a sour lump in his throat. "But—I didn't, Sam. I know what it looked like, but I didn't. If I was gonna ..."

He stops there, but the look he gives Sam is more than enough. Fanboy crush or not, Sam's the only person Dean would break his vow for. Or with.

"Huh." Sam sits back, ignoring the rush of warmth to his belly, thinking for a second. Then he dials Bobby's number on a hunch.

"What happens when a person sells their soul to a demon?" he asks when Bobby picks up. "I mean, baptism, ordination, stuff like that. Does it all just disappear?"

"I'm not sure," Bobby replies. "Baptism consecrates the soul to God, but when it's sold freely, all bets are off."

"So the person could be back to square one," Sam suggests. "A blank slate until they die and the soul goes to hell?"

"Maybe," Bobby allows. "It sure wouldn't be consecrated any more, and nothing new's gonna stick." His curiosity is clear in his voice. "What's this all about, Sam? Is this about Dean?"

"Not really," Sam hedges. "Just something I stumbled over while I was researching. Thanks, Bobby."

He snaps his phone closed before Bobby can pursue the question. Dean is sitting on his bed, hands dangling between his knees. He's watching Sam with a look of resignation.

"It's gone, isn't it?" he says softly. "When I made the deal, it broke the vow."

"I think so," Sam says. He looks away, tapping nervously against the table. "She has prior claim."

"No trespassing," Dean says, and laughs. It's not a good sound. "Figures."

"How bad is it?" Sam asks, because Dean kept that vow for over a year, and that's a hell of a lot of grace to lose all at once. He can't even imagine what it feels like.

"I don't know. I feel, I dunno. Weak." Dean shrugs again. "Vulnerable. Like I'm walking into a hunt without a weapon."

For Dean to feel that way is one thing—Sam knows his brother, and Dean is scared a lot more often than he lets on. For him to admit it is another thing entirely. If it's anything like what Sam's thinking, it'd be like having a layer of skin ripped off. He's amazed Dean can even function right now.

"There's got to be something we can do," he says, though he knows there isn't.

"There is." Dean's off the bed in an instant, coming over to stand by Sam's shoulder. He doesn't touch Sam, but his voice goes straight Sam's dick anyway. "Sammy ..."

Months, he's wanted this. Years. He can't remember a time when he didn't want Dean. Even when he was planning a future around Jess, he'd known he'd give it all up if Dean came knocking. And he had. And now here they are, and Dean's standing right beside him, practically _vibrating_ , and Sam is afraid.

What if Bobby's wrong? What if Dean has, oh, a _virus_ or something? If Sam touches him now, it's all over. Dean will be back to square one, no protection, no armour against the horde of demons they've let into the world.

"Sammy." Dean's voice is like gravel. His hand is hovering an inch from Sam's shoulder. "Don't make me beg."

Sam's already back at square one; he's got a new lease on life and Dean to thank for it. Maybe this is how they're meant to be: down to basics, backs to the wall, together.

Sam lets out a slow, careful breath and closes his eyes. All it takes is a turn of his head, and he's nuzzling Dean's denim-clad hip. He leans into the warmth, the hard jut of bone, imprinting this first touch on his memory.

Dean's hand slides around the nape of his neck and into his hair, gripping tight. It's a long moment before either of them speaks.

Then Sam breathes, "Okay. Okay, Dean, God," and Dean's dragging him up to kiss him, and the world starts spinning again.

END


End file.
